


Hand-to-Hand

by eponymous_rose



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponymous_rose/pseuds/eponymous_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the ceasefire, Agents Carolina and Washington help train the soldiers of Chorus, but they find there’s plenty of speculation that still needs to be put to rest: which surviving Freelancer is the stronger fighter? After all, a little sparring match never hurt anyone...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hand-to-Hand

The held-breath silence of the onlookers is familiar, intoxicating. The thing Carolina loves about fighting in front of an audience is the extra level of responsiveness: the sharp inhale that follows a near-miss, the sympathetic groan of a solid hit, the appreciative cheer of a well-executed escape from a chokehold. It's war as theater, it's immediate and visceral feedback, and she's missed it.

She bounces on the balls of her feet, testing her balance, and catches herself bobbing slightly to the left. Feels weird without the added weight and the accelerated servos of the armor, without the mechanical compensations for assorted ancient injuries, without Epsilon running calculations at the back of her head, but that's the point of this training exhibition, isn't it? Show these kids a thing or two about adaptability.

Besides, Wash seems to be having some trouble without his armor, too; he keeps reaching up and pushing back the messy scruff of hair that falls over his eyes. He's nervous, she can tell, but beneath an embarrassed flush his jaw is set.

Somewhere in the crowd, she hears Palomo whisper, "This is gonna be  _amazing._ "

Bitters says, "Anyone wanna bet that one of them gets killed?"

Jensen laughs, nervously. "Are you kidding? I'm hoping one of us doesn't get killed just by watching!"

"You good, Wash?" Carolina calls.

He shrugs, turns it into a casual roll of his shoulders, but his stance is still way too tense. "Sure."

"Wash," she says.

He meets her eyes, and finally smiles. There's an edge to it she doesn't recognize, but the uneven pull of his lips is so familiar it makes her chest ache. "I'm good."

She nods to Lieutenant Smith, who is apparently the only one brave enough to be within a hundred feet of the combatants; everyone else seems locked in a struggle to find the optimal viewing distance that will also minimize their chances of being caught in the crossfire. He says, "Ready? Begin!" in a tone of voice so calm that for a moment Carolina thinks of FILSS, then he steps back into the crowd circling the fighters.

Wash exhales, but doesn't move. He's not actually rooted—his feet are shifting, making the most of the opportunity to test his weight out of armor—but he's cautious, plainly waiting for her to make the first attack.

She grins, launches herself from her good leg, and winds back with a broadly telegraphed punch. Wash gets the message instantly and fades out of range of the hit, turning as Carolina's momentum carries her past him. There's an appreciative murmur from the crowd at the familiar drill—using obvious errors to their advantage was their hand-to-hand lesson last week. She can't resist taking advantage of Wash's lazy turn, though, and kicks lightly at his stiff, unbalanced leg with just enough force to send him stumbling back with a grunt.

"Watch your form," she says, softening the words with a teasing lilt. "You've always been sloppy at CQC."

He rolls out his shoulders again; the action makes no visible dent in the rigid tension of his muscles. But he smirks back, his eyes flicking to the crowd. "And you've always liked to show off."

The crowd gives a muted  _ohhhh_  at that, and Carolina grins, nodding to acknowledge the hit. "So let's give these kids a show."

Wash moves without warning, quicker than she would've given him credit for, but he appears to have no particular plan beyond charging, so she snatches his arm and spins back to lever him into a textbook judo throw. They're fighting on the hard ground, no mats, so he lands awkwardly with a little hurt-animal noise, and she's about to pull back and reset when she realizes he's managed to get a foot under him. He locks his hand on her arm before she can pull away, pivots on one foot, twists, and  _slams_  the heel of his other foot directly into her bad knee.

She's not sure whether or not she yells; she  _is_  sure that the world whites out for a second, and for a moment all she can focus on is the need for escape. She feels a sickening grind as she transfers all her weight to the bad leg and snaps off a quick kick to his face. The impact runs up and down her spine, and he releases his grip on her arm with a yelp. She staggers back, makes the mistake of planting her foot, and twists, stumbles, almost falls.

When her vision clears, Wash is pushing to his feet, one hand hovering over his nose. It's obviously broken, but he's grinning, teeth stained pink with blood. "Nice hit."

Carolina tests her weight; the knee almost buckles under her. She shifts into a more guarded, defensive stance. She pictures herself in armor, activating the automated dispensation of painkillers. For a moment, she feels a placebo reduction of the pain. "You've learned to fight dirty, Wash. I'm impressed."

He shrugs, drops his hand from its reflexive guard of his bleeding face. "Learned from the best."

She moves in, this time with an intentionally sloppy lunge that puts all her weight on her good foot, and swings a vicious right-handed haymaker. Her guess that Wash might be a little concussed is proven correct when he goes for the feint; she ducks under his block and slams the heel of her left hand into his ribs, aiming for the half-knitted breaks still healing after the fight with the mercenaries. He grunts, but doesn't flinch the way she expects, and instead grabs at her shirt with one hand and slams a closed fist into the side of her head with the other.

It's a ridiculous, careless move, vicious and pointless—in the war of knuckles versus skull, the knuckles aren't ever going to come out on top. She distinctly hears something snap in his hand. But in the next second the pain lights up her skull, and she bites down on her tongue, and he just keeps coming, swinging a follow-up hit like his hand isn't already swelling. It takes everything she's got to remember to put her good leg behind her to catch her weight and stop his stumbling momentum, to take advantage of his death-grip on her shirt to yank him closer and slam her open palm against his ear. He still doesn't let go. The next hit splits a gash along her hairline.

Her blood is on his knuckles when he winds up for another hit, so she slams the heel of her hand against his temple, hard. His grip finally relaxes. He slumps against her for a moment with a sigh, forehead pressed into her throat, and she feels some of the tension easing in his shoulders, feels the heat of his breath and his blood down the front of her shirt. She presses a hand under his chin, tilts his head and pushes his hair back to get a better look at his eyes; he's clearly half-conscious, dazed. Then he blinks once, slowly, and twists out of her grip, snapping a soft kick into her ribs to buy himself space. She gives it to him, backing off two limping steps, spitting blood from her bitten tongue.

He's barely standing, swaying, his eyes glazed over, but he's still on his feet. The match isn't over yet. Carolina squares off again, her breathing loud over the roar in her ears. There's some sort of commotion behind her, but it's dull and muted. She's hurt, she knows; something feels torn again in her knee, and there's the warm tickle of blood running down the side of her face. But the fight's already got a familiar sense of inevitability to it, and she knows it's just a matter of time. Wash never did know how to stay down, but he'll get the message eventually.

He comes at her with a laughably clumsy punch, and she goes for his ribs again, feels something give under her fist. He staggers back, changes his stance, swings again, and this time all Carolina has to do is limp back a step and let him overextend; he gasps and doubles over mid-attack, clutching his ribs.

Someone is saying something, behind her. Someone is shouting something, and the distinct ring of command finally cuts through.

"Agents! Stand  _down_!"

A spinal reflex forces Carolina to attention, breathing hard through the blood in her mouth, and she watches Wash make a valiant attempt at doing the same, although he's still hunched over. For a moment, there's a weird doubling of the figure in front of her, an impression of a different voice, a different accent, of cold, familiar eyes—

Vanessa Kimball has her arms crossed tightly, like she's warding off a chill. She's watching them intently, her eyes flicking from one to the other. Her voice, when she speaks, is very calm. "Carolina. What the hell is going on here?"

Carolina summons up a lopsided smile. "Exhibition match. They've been bugging us to spar for a while, now. Finally got around to it."

Wash limps up beside her; she turns to see that he's smiling, too. "Haven't really let loose like that for a long time. Not in training, anyway." He coughs, groans. "Nice one, boss. But I had you on the ropes."

Carolina scoffs, then really wishes she hadn't. Scoffing is painful. "Come on, Wash, you're barely on your feet. Technically you were unconscious for a few seconds, there. If FILSS were monitoring our vitals, you would've lost then."

"Never realized you were such a sore loser—"

"Enough," Kimball says. She says it softly, mildly. Beyond her, Carolina can see the terrified, wide-eyed looks of the gathered soldiers. "You two are going straight to the infirmary. What the hell were you thinking?"

Carolina glances at Wash, who shrugs, then winces. "I understand our training might look a little harsh—"

"You're both covered in blood," Kimball says, evenly. "Harsh is an understatement."

"It was a training match," Carolina says. She hates the note of confusion in her voice, hates the off-balance feeling of yet another truth being dragged out and inspected under a new lens. "I mean, Wash, remember when the twins broke your wrist the first time you trained with them? That thing kept bothering you for years afterwards."

"The armor can offset most injuries," Wash says. "It was SOP at Freelancer to get the medics to reset the parameters after any particularly rough training matches. The entire mission of the Project was to test new ways of integrating human Agents with mechanical augmentation. It wasn't a big deal if we were hurt, so long as the armor could compensate. And a training session with too many safety parameters doesn't adequately prepare you for—"

"That's not how we operate," says Kimball. Her even, dangerous tone is giving way to a more familiar exasperation. "You may have done permanent damage, for all we know. You couldn't possibly have trained like this all the time."

Carolina glances at Wash, who glances back.

Kimball presses a hand to her forehead, says, "That was part of the experiment," softly, under her breath, then straightens. "That's it, isn't it? Let you train in real, deadly situations so you'd get yourselves hurt badly enough to need the tech he was developing?"

"That's ridiculous," Carolina says.

"Yes," says Kimball, "it is. Infirmary. Now."

Wash grimaces and starts stumbling through the crowd, which parts around him. Carolina stays standing at attention, brow furrowed. "It's not what you think," she says. "Wash and I weren't really trying to hurt each other. This isn't... isn't some sort of breakdown of discipline. We were just sparring."

The crowd's beginning to disperse, now that the show's over, and Carolina feels some pride at the faint, awed whispers that linger in its wake. But Kimball's still standing in front of her, arms crossed like she's hugging herself. "Every time you talk about Project Freelancer," she says, "I get this feeling like I'm going to throw up. Just thinking about it."

"We were the best," Carolina says, defensively. She keeps expecting to see pity in Kimball's eyes, but there's only a vague sense of horror there. Worry. Fear.

"Yeah," Kimball says. "You'd pretty much have to be." She unfolds her arms, presses one hand probingly to the gash in the side of Carolina's head; Carolina flinches back. "You're going to need to get this sealed, it's still bleeding. How's the knee?"

"Not great," Carolina admits.

Kimball sighs, wraps an arm around Carolina's waist, and waits for Carolina to drape her arm over her shoulders. The warmth of her is solid, reassuring. "C'mon," she says. "We'll get you patched up."

Carolina sighs and closes her eyes, lets herself lean her full weight against Kimball for a moment, just a moment, listens to the steadiness of her breathing. "Everything keeps changing," she says. Her voice comes out small.

"I'm still here," says Kimball. "If you need me."

Carolina opens her eyes, cautiously puts some weight back on her bad leg, and lets Kimball help her limp to the infirmary, step by halting step.


End file.
